To Seattle
BY R.J. RONGCAL I NOVEMBER 9, 2010

This is exactly what I didn’t want 
for you to follow me 
from Seattle 
to Germany 
to Kuwait 
to Zanzibar.  
I told you I would be away 
for a very long time, 
and that I didn’t want to talk about it.
Hearing your keys whistling
at the door, your coffee and cream 
making love in the kitchen,
and the blood naturally forming
your face’s pink speckles - like 
cells anticipating a wound -  
was pleasure enough.

I didn’t mean to feel this, I’m sorry.
But I need to get away from you.
It’s not my idea, I swear.  It’s Dr. Iman’s.  
She says if I do, I might not need
these pills anymore.  
You understand, right?  
This isn’t forever.  
Just until I’m better again.  
Then, all those plans you had,
the ones you started making 
outside that Irish bar in Seattle - 
you can tell me all about it;
and your blood cells will be bored,
because they’ll never have to find
another wound again.  

I’m going to walk now.
A lot of things have to happen
before I can make it back to Seattle. 
There’s a lot of things I have to learn.  
There’s a bus near the free-way, 
that’ll get me started - 
if I can just make it
across this dirt.

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